Spring. A baby is born. Life. He lives in a floating monastery in the middle of a lake. Amongst trees of centuries old and mountain-tops, buried deep in leafy-green foliage. Nature. The young boy lives with an older man. They’re monks. Buddhist monks. Faith. The boy ties a stone to a frog. To a fish. To a snake. He laughs, watching on with glee as they struggle with their new-found burdens. The elder monk returns the favour, tying a boulder…

Ouch. This broke me.

I generally try to stay away from being overly personal with my writing on here for fear of oversharing but it feels only appropriate here.

My grandparents on my mothers side are creeping into their nineties. Obviously, this is an achievement in and of itself and we're very fortunate that they've lived such long, fruitful lives, including my formative years.

Naturally, with age they are becoming less and less able. It's painful and uncomfortable to watch…

And they lived happily ever after… or did they?

Mr. Joel McCrea dashing after a despondent Ms. Claudette Colbert through a packed hotel in his PJ’s & dressing gown (housecoat? bathrobe?) after she ups and leaves him post-argument in the night evoked welcome flashbacks of THE MORE THE MERRIER. At its peak, THE PALM BEACH STORY goes toe to toe with Stevens’ offering in its dovetailing of slapstick that would make Chaplin blush and classic nonsensical screwball antics. 

Don’t ask me…

If I have not love, I have nothing.

In a word, spellbinding. Kieslowski stretches the cinematic vista to fashion this never-seen-before emotional register. Where feelings can be understood like a colour. Grief can be heard like a solitary note of music. Detachment can be touched upon, made physical and concrete in the depths of our beating hearts. And hope can be practically tasted, in the presence and eventual acceptance of all-new life and letting go.

Letting go of the memories…